


The Kiss

by beautylikethenight



Category: Carry On - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: First Kiss, Kissing, Light Angst, M/M, Underage Drinking, probably not that angsty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-01
Updated: 2016-08-01
Packaged: 2018-07-28 18:35:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7652260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beautylikethenight/pseuds/beautylikethenight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Baz and Simon didn't share their first kiss in the forest?</p><p>What if something occurred before, something heavily influenced by alcohol?</p><p> </p><p>(Basically, Simon gets drunk in seventh year, and kisses Baz.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Kiss

**Author's Note:**

> Hi.
> 
> Basically, when I read Carry On I was listening to The Cure a lot, and when I heard their song called 'The Kiss' I was really inspired to write something - SnowBaz seemed appropriate considering the lyrics.
> 
> (To be honest, every song by The Cure inspires me to write.)
> 
> Thank you for reading 
> 
> \- gee xx

I know exactly where he is. 

I know exactly what he's doing. 

I know exactly who he's with. 

I'm still dumbfounded that Bunce would go along with this tradition. She follows Snow around like a lost puppy (or rather, he follows her) most of the time, but I never presumed that she would go along with this offence. Although, half of the year group is doing it, so can you really blame them. 

Most of them are still only seventeen, with a sprinkling of eighteen-year-olds joining in. Every year, the seventh year group have a gathering of sorts; out by the Yew trees; the first Friday back from Christmas break. Many of them either smuggle in or magic alcohol – which is against the rules of Normal society, never mind ours. Since some of them won't be returning next year, it marks one of their last causes for celebration before they leave. Therefore, they act like morons and have, what the Normals would call, a piss-up. 

Snow is out there somewhere. With Bunce. I presume Agatha Wellbelove will be glued to them too. Getting plastered. He's probably snogging Wellbelove. (I honestly pity Bunce sometimes. Having to put up with those two must be a nightmare.). Agatha is gorgeous, though; her appearance never falters. Ever. I can see why he is so infatuated with her, so obsessed, so in love - that's exactly how I feel about him. 

Curse whoever created fate, because they're clearly fucking with me. Snow is my enemy. Not my lover. He never will be. (My poor pining heart shatters because of that fact. If I have a heart, that is.). 

Despite my judgement of the rabble outside, I may have had a few drinks with Dev and Niall. But, not nearly as much as I could have, or would have liked to have had. Certainly not as much as anyone joining the festivities outside. 

To be quite honest, I'm still shocked at how they get away with it. Surely The Mage must have caught on by now. Tonight is not the first time this has happened. I doubt it's the last. Yet, I would have thought, this year at least, he would have put an end to it. His precious Chosen One is out there. What if he hurts himself? Becomes too intoxicated to think, and falls into the moat? The Merwolves could easily make a meal out of him. The Mage really needs to sort his priorities out. How about he stops trying to destroy the Old Families, and starts caring about Snow for once? Simon is his heir after all! 

(I ignore the way my body goes numb, the horrendous way my stomach flutters, the crushing tightness in my chest, when I think of Simon in pain. I need to get these emotions under control. Fast.) 

The bridge will lift soon. 

The tranquil air will soon be flooded with footsteps, as panicked feet stumble across the moat to return to their rooms. Snow will be back soon. Probably off his head with alcohol. Not quite drunk enough to forget me, though. He'll return; he'll still hate me. Even as the child of Natasha Pitch, I am powerless to stop his grudge against me. Powerless to undo the things I've done. The words I've spoken. The feelings I've composed for him. 

And it hurts. 

Agony runs deeper than it should. Deeper than I want it to. Snow has tried for years to overpower me, ignore me, destroy me. But all he has to do is exist to ruin me. To wreck me in the most blissful way. We are fated to end in flames. A fight to the death. One of us will be victorious, and I hope it's him. Well, I know it will be him – if I finished him, forgiveness would be inconceivable. Plus, what a fantastically bitter-sweet way to go. Completely annihilated by Simon Snow – the Chosen One, my Chosen One. The boy I have loved, pretty much, from first sight. 

Even so, my father would never forgive me if I lose. Vampire, gay and defeated by Simon Snow – the family name would be tarnished beyond salvation. 

Abruptly, I hear him. Stumbling up the stairs of Mummers House. Breaths heavy with effort. Snow suddenly bursts into our room, clearly without regarding the fact that I could be asleep. Luckily, I'm only sat on my bed, not sleeping in it. With one swift glance at me, he hurries into the bathroom, stumbling like a newborn calf. 

Crowley, I pity him. Which is not something I do often, for anyone. Just because Simon is probably the love of my life, doesn't mean I have to feel sorry for him. Judging by the state he's in now, everyone will pity him tomorrow morning. Already, I'm hoping Bunce knows some good hangover spells because, Merlin, he'll need as many as he can when he wakes up. 

Once he's done in the bathroom, he perches on his bed. Almost mirroring myself. Snow is staring. I'm staring back. My cold, grey, dead eyes hold contact with his enormous, blue, lively ones. For a second, I am lost. His eyes are ordinary. Their colour is plain, they look average. But if eyes truly are windows to the soul, I'm gazing straight into his. Simon is so alive now. So animated, so awake. A reminder that he is living and breathing and existing. Day by day, he is proof of my own miserable existence. Even if he hates me, and every word aimed at me is venom from his lips, every action a stab to my heart, my heart cannot seem to contain itself. The monster inside of me cannot escape from the clutch of Simon Snow… 

And I never wish it to. 

“Baz,” He utters, never breaking our glare. 

“What, Snow?” Coldly, I reply. I have better things to do with my Friday evening than have a drunk one-to-one with Simon. For example, I could be spending my time imagining far-fetched realities involving Simon. 

“Baz,” I don't reply, so he continues with a dragged out, “Basil?” 

He rarely addresses me as Baz; why the sudden change to Basil? It sounds way too formal. Moreover, it is way too formal sounding for Snow. The name comes out with a weird tang to it. (Alcohol?). 

“What do you want, Snow?” Now I'm irritated, “Spit it out! We haven't got all night.” 

No verbal response comes, but he shoots up. Still holding the unforeseen eye contact, but now he's fumbling towards me. Like he's unsure of what to do. For God’s sake, what is he doing? 

I tower over him by a few inches once I stand to mirror him. Paralleling him. My stance never fails. But he's so close now. Inches apart. Too near. 

Eyes exploding with exhilaration peer into me. Rugged breaths emitting from his pink lips. Crowley, I want to kiss them. I imagine it on a near daily basis. I've never kissed anyone before. Can't imagine it's all it's cracked up to be, though. Yet, my fantasies with Snow are things of true beauty. We fit together like puzzle pieces. The universe explodes when he touches me. The ricochet of his soft whispers hit me like bullets, in all the right places of my dead heart. Still, fantasies are exactly that: fantasies. Hallucinations and illusions of his skin against mine are all but fragments of my tortuous imagination. 

Still, he's so close now. Close enough for me to notice the dusting of freckles across his cheeks. They're endearing. He's endearing. No words have left either of our mouths, and I can tell he is drunk out of his mind. Tomorrow this will all be forgotten; the alcohol buzzing inside him will guarantee that. Snow probably won't remember climbing up the stairs, or the fact that Penelope had to practically carry him back to the dorm – I only know that because I have weird vampire senses, I can listen to things humans cannot hear. (Some of which I wish I would never hear.). 

Snow breaks our locked eyes by taking a glimpse at my lips. Which, if I am not mistaken (which I usually am not), is the most clichéd indicator that he is going to kiss me. There's not enough blood in the world I could drain to be blushing as much as I should be right now. My rational thoughts begin to take over – Would he kiss me? Why would he kiss me? Is there trouble in paradise with him and Wellbelove? Why didn't she help walk him home? How drunk is he? 

Beautifully, my chaotic thoughts are interrupted by Snow glancing one final time: from my eyes, to my lips, back to my eyes, before we both mutually move forward; the gap between us is closed. Those sinful lips are finally against mine. Lips we use to insult and irritate and abuse each other with, are now pressed together in a sloppy, unskilled fashion. Nothing like my dreams or midnight fantasies. Better. This kiss was real, so, so real. Simon Snow was my first kiss and I didn't care that this was I would ever get. A drunken, alcohol fuelled, mistake of a kiss – nonetheless, it was still a kiss. 

At first, I am afraid. Afraid that my fangs might pop out. Terrified of biting him. Petrified about what this could mean. Frightened about the aftermath. 

All of a sudden, I surrender. My thoughts melt away; the only thing left is Simon. Simon is paralysing to me. Bringing all my thoughts to a halt, erasing my sane mind, replacing my worried thoughts with captivating chaos. 

All I can focus on is Simon. The way I could taste the alcohol from him, burning my throat. His hands snaking around my waist and up, further and further, across my back and to my shoulder blades. My hands twisted in the blond curls of his hair. I pulled and he pushed. We melted together, but I couldn't shake the nagging guilt of doing this to Wellbelove, the guilt of doing this to Simon. If he knew, he would probably wouldn't forgive himself and break up with Agatha. Meaning he would be single, and available. But I don't stand a chance. Additionally, Simon Snow is irritating enough to live with, I don't need him sulking around because his relationship ended badly, especially if it's my fault. From this moment on, I vow to keep this a secret – even though I could use it to my advantage. However, the way he pushes against me acts as a reminder of how much I care. Though, I try my hardest not to. 

Kissing Simon takes me somewhere else. There are no wars here. No fighting. No Simon versus Baz. No arguments. Just Simon kissing me; me kissing Simon. Why should this feeling end? It's euphoric and lovely, and Crowley, it's all I've ever wanted. 

On the other hand, my rational side gets the better of me. I shut off the feelings, and I let go. I reluctantly retract my hands from his golden curls, planting them gently on his chest, and firmly break away. Simon leans back in - I have to fight against my own will to stop myself from indulging in another kiss. 

“Go to bed, Snow, it's late.” 

But I love you, he says to me, in my head of course. Sometimes, my imagination gets the better of me. We both climb into our own beds in an almost synchronised manner. My heart races, or maybe I'm imagining it – does my heart even beat? Until I hear light breathing coming from kiss swollen lips at the opposite side of the room, I retain my composure. Once he is asleep, I break. Sobs shake my body. Tears escape my eyes – apparently, I'm alive enough to cry – because that was it. My first kiss was stolen by a boy who wouldn't even remember it the next day; I gladly gave it to him, though. Nothing was as perfect as those past few moments. 

What if he remembers? He could kiss me again. Crowley, Simon, please kiss me again. We could have potential if he just remembers. Or, the potential outcome could be catastrophic. If I hadn't broken away, would he have carried on into the morning? There was some reason to him kissing me – does he feel the same way? 

Does it matter? 

Even so, if all I ever get of Simon Snow is a messy, alcohol induced, mistake of a kiss, then so be it. 

 

(Simon awoke with a legendary hangover.) 

(He didn't remember a thing.)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you very much for reading. 
> 
> You can be a babe and leave kudos or a comment, if you enjoyed it.
> 
> If you thought this was awful, I apologise. Feel free to rant at me in the comments.


End file.
